Wistful Childhood Dreams

wistful dreams, childhood years,
caught in time, joyful tears,
memories hover in my head,
angels dancing, wings outspread.

no borders between realities,
ride the waves in the breeze,
then is now, and now is then,
back and forth, again and again.

grandma’s house now in view,
time tunnel opens, deja vu,
nighttime arrives, skies navy blue,
fireflies flicker, evening dew.

alarm clock rings, must arise,
in my heart, morning butterflies,
now is then, then is now,
face this day, i will somehow.

Arrowhead Hunting

Delicately crafted Indian arrowheads,
razor-sharp flint projectile points,
primitive stone bullets,
hidden artifacts from long ago.

Eventually they call out to our curiosity
on hot and steamy summer mornings,
inviting us to freshly plowed cornfields,
where they’ve patiently slept for millennia.

You know they’re out there,
hoping to remain buried secrets, yet
wishing to be found, revered, and held excitedly
in eager young boys’ sweaty palms.

We hunted them as faithfully as
the ancient “arrowhead” men,
who hunted prey with bows and spears
in long forgotten grasslands and forests.

Something powerful awakens inside you
in realizing you are the first person
to hold this cool, jagged edged stone tool
since it was created 2,000 years ago.

Suddenly, you become aware that
nothing is really lost in our vast universe–
It is simply waiting for an inquisitive hand
to reach into the dark earth and bring it back to life.